


all your cargames are belong to us

by sinfuldesire_archivist



Category: Supernatural
Genre: During Canon, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-07-15
Updated: 2007-07-15
Packaged: 2018-09-03 06:08:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8700403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinfuldesire_archivist/pseuds/sinfuldesire_archivist
Summary: Throwing things out of a window, and schmoop.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the Sinful Desire archivists: this story was originally archived at [Sinful-Desire.org](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Sinful_Desire). To preserve the archive, we began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in November 2016. We e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [Sinful Desire collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/sinfuldesire/profile).

**Title:** all your cargames are belong to us  
**Author:** [ ](http://keepaofthecheez.livejournal.com/profile)[**keepaofthecheez**](http://keepaofthecheez.livejournal.com/)  
**Pairing:** Sam/Dean  
**Rating/Warnings:** NC-17   
**Word Count:** 2, 317  
**Summary:** Throwing things out of a window, and schmoop.   
**Notes:** Written for [ ](http://community.livejournal.com/spn_heraea/profile)[](http://community.livejournal.com/spn_heraea/)**spn_heraea**. More at the end of the fic.  
  
  
  
  
“Slugbug silver!”   
  
The hard _thwap_ of Dean's fist burns Sam’s shoulder. Before he can yell about personal space and respect thereof, Dean’s already crowing, “No hit-backs! Lose the shirt, bitch!”  
  
“Excuse me?” Sam rubs his shoulder, still staring at Dean like his brother’s grown a big L right smack in the middle of his forehead. “What the hell game are _you_ playing?”  
  
Dean’s expression is two shades too innocent, which usually means they’ll wind up in jail. Or worse. “Strip Slugbug.”  
  
Sam stares. Dean shrugs.  
  
“Hey, man. Gotta make our own fun out here.” Dean grins so wide his eyes crinkle at the corner; Sam’s not gonna admit he finds it cute.  
  
“How the hell do you even play _Strip_ Slugbug?”  
  
Dean slants him a look that makes it seem like _Sam’s_ the one completely fucked in the head, and follows it with an impatient tap against the steering wheel. “I’m bored out of my mind. Either entertain me or get out.”  
  
And there’s just no way Sam is going to put up with that. “There’s hardly been a car on this highway all afternoon. Kinda pointless, don’t you think?”  
  
“Ah, okay. I get it.” Dean waits a beat, voice dropping to that familiar challenging tone that has Sam sighing even before the rest comes out. “Scared to lose, eh, Sammy-boy?”  
  
And god, does Sam hate that _that_ still works. Grown-ass man, and still stung by a single questioning smirk from Big Brother’s lips. Within seconds he’s ripping his shirt over his head, glare hot on Dean’s profile as he tosses it in the backseat and crosses his arms against his chest. “Going down,” he promises, smile nasty and predatory. Dean perks up.  
  
“Oh, yeah. That’s the spirit.”  
  
It’s rare these days to see Dean so relaxed, joking around, instead of tense and on the alert for the next epic tragedy in their lives. Sam hadn’t realized how much he’s been aching to see that carefree side of his brother again until his belly goes warm at the sight of Dean’s smile.   
  
If this is what it takes, then so be it.  
  
As it happens, they drive past a Volkswagon dealership an hour into the game, and then all bets are off. When the dust settles minutes later, Sam has a fat lip and is grinning so hard he can taste salty-sweet blood in his mouth.  
  
“Damn. Gonna run us off the road, jerk.” He reaches over, gives a gentle poke to the red welt under Dean’s eye, already seeing an honest-to-god bruise forming. “Oops.”  
  
Dean flinches and Sam licks his lips, wincing a bit when his tongue drags over the tender flesh. “You fight dirty,” Dean mumbles, but there's no disguising the pride in his voice. and Sam shakes his head--more amused than he wants to admit.  
  
Only Dean Winchester would think of beating on each other as some weird form of kinship. Or--judging by the gleam in Dean’s eyes--foreplay.  
  
“Learned from the best,” Sam says, still smiling.   
  
Pleasure sweeps across his brother’s face and for a moment, everything seems easy. Simple. _Normal._ Sam would suffer through a thousand bruises and split-lips for just a second more of that. Has, in a way, but it never really seems to be enough. Not where Dean’s concerned.  
  
Don Henley’s mellow-smooth voice is singing about lying eyes, and Sam relaxes into his seat. He enjoys the sun warming through the window, humming under his breath as the radio segues into something so old he can’t name it. Doesn’t mean he can’t enjoy it.  
  
Then: “Gimme your shorts, Sam.”  
  
“You say the sweetest things.” Sam doesn’t bat an eyelash, voice dry as ash. “Also? Screw you.”  
  
Dean’s cackle isn’t the least bit reassuring, but it sparks something hot and interesting, deep down in Sam’s bones; he sits up a little more. Pays attention. Prepares for whatever _this_ is about. “Givin’ in so soon? Heh. That’s my eager boy.”  
  
  
And, okay. Sam knows this; what it means. Granted, it’s been awhile; for all that his brother is interested in everything with a pulse, he hasn’t been lately.   
  
Falling back into old, questionable habits has been the last thing on either of their minds after the clusterfuck-turned-victory in Wyoming. But Sam’s been holding out quiet hope that eventually, things would calm, settle. That they’d both be given a second chance at whatever the hell this thing between them was.  
  
“I know I’m gonna regret asking…” He turns in his seat to study the splash of sunlight falling across Dean’s side of the car. “But why the _hell_ should I give you my underwear?”  
  
“Forfeit.” Dean’s explanation is filled with unholy glee. He wiggles his brows, drawing attention to the rainbow under his eye. “Hitting below the belt…or above the nose.”  
  
Sam blinks, and his voice goes flat. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”   
  
“Hand them over. You know the rules.”  
  
“The ones you obviously just made up?” But damn it, Sam’s a fucking play-by-the-rules kind of guy. Dean knows it, too, and exasperation wars with grudging indulgence as Sam reaches for his zipper, tugs down his pants.  
  
And cusses.  
  
“Dude.” Surprise sharpens Dean’s voice to a point. “Uh, what the _fuck_ are those?”  
  
“Underwear,” Sam snaps, ignoring Dean’s barely controlled laughter and the bright pattern in his lap. _Fucking hell, anyway._  
  
“Those are smiley faces. On your _dick_ , Sam.” Dean lets loose with a bark of laughter, and heat creeps up along Sam’s throat until he can feel two flags of color burning bright in his cheeks.  
  
Before he can remind himself about the whole 'grown-ass man' thing, he's glaring back at Dean. “I got ‘em in a six-pack at Wal-Mart! It’s cheap and practical--”   
  
“Six-pack in the under twelve section?” While Dean enjoys his own stupid joke, Sam pauses. Looks down at his lap, smirks.   
  
“ _Just_ under twelve.” Not quite a purr, but not far from it either, and the back of Dean’s neck goes pink and flushed as he looks away. Grumbles something under his breath that Sam can’t quite make out.  
  
Hooking his thumbs down under the waistband, Sam laughs, long and low. “I think you owe me one, too, there, slugger.” He plucks his bruised bottom lip, but Dean’s not paying any attention. He’s staring at Sam’s behind--or trying not to, actually--so Sam rolls his eyes. “Pull over.”  
  
“Wh-What?” Dean blinks, snaps his gaze up and locks onto Sam’s. His brows draw together in a scowl when Sam clears his throat. “Dude, gimme your shorts.”  
  
“What’re you gonna do with them?” But Sam’s already handing them over, more than willing to speed this along if it’ll get them in the backseat quicker. He almost wants to laugh; _Dean’s_ always been the one couldn’t keep his hands to himself.   
  
Dean tosses Sam's underwear out the window. “That’s better.”  
  
“Hey!” Sam twists around and sticks his head out the window to stare at the brightly colored cloth now littering I-70. When he looks back, Dean is belting out along with Bon Scott, and Sam wants to choke him. “Dean!”   
  
“I did you a favor.” Dean thumps the steering wheel every time the song hits the _long way to the top_ crescendo. “Quit bitchin’ and keep your eyes out for a--”  
  
“Slugbug!” they both yell as a snazzy green Beetle passes them, going the opposite direction. Sam lands a solid punch to Dean’s upper arm at the same time Dean’s fingers pinch up high on his thigh.  
  
Sam swears a blue streak, Dean laughs again--and it’s the happiest sound Sam’s heard in months. Hard to stay mad at that, and then Dean’s fingers are around his dick and even bare-assed naked in a car in the middle of the day, it’s even harder to remember why he would be mad anyway.  
  
Sam lets out a helpless noise. He can’t help but thrust up into Dean’s grasp, his head falling back against the seat. Dean’s saying something-- _“That’s it, c’mon now”_ \--and Sam swallows hard.  
  
“Pull over,” Sam manages, but the words come out too thick. “’fore you get us both killed.”  
  
“Live a little dangerously, Sammy.” Dean jacks him slow and steady, fingers curling just right around his cock.   
  
Sam’s chuckle is just this side of dizzy. “One car wreck not enough for you? Damn it…Dean… _pull over._ ” His grip on the side of his seat tightens, knuckles going white. “Oh, God.”  
  
Dean’s thumb passes over the head of his dick, soft circles and just that sweet edge of nail. Sam’s eyes squeeze tight and he comes all over his brother’s fist. Can’t do a damn thing to stop it: filth spills out of his mouth like a downpour. His ears ring.  
  
The Impala’s tires squeak as Dean finally grinds the gears to a halt. He pulls over onto the uneven shoulder just behind a pretty damn conveniently-placed roadsign.  
  
“Wound pretty tight, huh?”  
  
Sam sucks in another breath; grunts when Dean keeps right on sliding his fist up and down, spreading the wet warmth until Sam twitches. Dean’s hand is starting to stick. Sam’s reaching back for a towel, a sock, something to wipe down with, but Dean’s already got his shirt off and Sam changes direction, too easily distracted by bare, freckled skin.  
  
He fingers the bullet-shaped scar high on Dean’s shoulder, imagines he can feel the faint pulse of blood underneath. “Pretty tight, yeah,” he murmurs, pushing back the dark thought for the smile edging the corners of his brother’s lips. He clears his throat. “Well, that was…”  
  
“You said I owed you one.” An impish gleam in Dean’s eye, and he’s shrugging. Sam’s hand slides from his shoulder to his hip. “Worth a busted lip there, Samantha?”  
  
The answer’s easy enough, mouth to mouth with Sam sucking on Dean’s tongue. He tastes the burnt coffee from the unfortunate diner they’d stopped in for lunch. Cherry pie. Spit. _Dean_.  
  
Dean sighs a little, then leans back and lets Sam mouth a trail down his throat, past a nipple. “Feelin’ friendly again, I see,” Dean says.  
  
“Lift up.” He’s got a hand inside Dean’s jeans, palming the thick ridge there.   
  
Dean raises up off the seat, and gasps, "easy," when Sam jerks the denim down his legs, reaches for his hips. Sam just moves faster, clumsy-quick hands and fingers, and balls Dean’s underwear up and throws it out the window. Right into a puddle of muddy rainwater leftover from a surprise summer shower.   
  
“…Sam!”  
  
Sam flashes his teeth, cocks his head and slides as far down between Dean’s legs as he can fit. “Fair’s fair.” A beat. “Be glad your Zeppelin shirt survived.”  
  
“You’re a sick son of a bitch.” Dean drops a hand on Sam’s head, guides him. “I’ve always liked that about you.”  
  
“How tight are you wound?” Sam asks in a low voice, and licks up one side of Dean’s cock, down the other. There’s a rough gasp, Dean’s hips roll, and Sam wets his bottom lip, tastes new blood. He doesn’t care much when he glances up and finds Dean staring down at him with glazed eyes  
  
“Good?” He isn’t expecting an answer, not really. It’s not like there’s a _wrong_ way to suck Dean’s cock. Dean’s probably had more blowjobs in his lifetime than the population of a small country, and yet he’s appreciative of each and every one. Even when Sam slobbers and chokes on him, Dean just digs his fingers into Sam’s cheeks and groans how good Sam makes him feel. It’d be funny if it didn’t get Sam so hard he has to fight against humping the mattress, backseat, nearest available surface to keep from blowing his load all over himself.  
  
Speaking of.  
  
“You better gimme a warning this time.” He purses his mouth, dropping a sucking wet kiss to the tip of Dean’s cock. It stings a bit at the corner of his swollen lip, but hell, they’ve fucked and sucked under plenty worse conditions.  
  
Dean’s hand is already wrapped up in his hair, brushing it back from Sam’s forehead in an oddly gentle caress. His voice goes deep, filthy-low and thrumming. “Oh god, Sammy…take all the fun out of it.” Sam opens his throat, takes him down deep, and Dean’s fingers clench, voice cracks. “Yeah, c’mon then.”  
  
He’d never say this out loud--least never before--but Christ, he loves this. Loves sucking Dean’s cock, sure, but even more he loves when it’s just them. No pretenses, no bullshit.  
  
But, oh yeah, the cocksucking is good.  
  
Slouched low in his seat and flushed all over, freckles standing out even more than usual, Dean seems to agree. Sam picks out faint patterns across Dean’s belly. He reaches between Dean’s legs and cups his balls. He knows exactly what reaction that’ll get and, sure enough, Dean jerks. Salt-bitter sprinkles Sam’s tongue, down his throat, and Dean’s satisfied, aching groans fill the car.   
  
The steering wheel’s digging into Sam’s back, his lip throbs like a bitch.   
  
It’s fucking perfect.  
  
“Sorry.” Dean’s murmur is husky, apologetic. Sam moves back over to his seat, wipes his mouth and glances toward his brother, sprawled out and panting. “Didn’t warn you.”  
  
Sam snorts, his chest clenched with affection he’s never been able to measure or put a name to. “Least you didn’t jizz in my eye again.”  
  
“Surprise.” Dean grimaces, shifts and groans. “Oh damn it, Sam. My fucking _underwear._ ”  
  
“Oops,” Sam says. And maybe he’s just a little bit evil after all. “Want me to grab another pair?”  
  
“Nah, fuck it.” Dean scratches his belly, smile lazy and satisfied. “I’ll just borrow some of your Wal-Mart specials ‘til I get some laundry done.”  
  
Sam starts to speak, then grins. “Yeah, sure thing, man.”  
  
Let Dean find out about the polka dots on his own.


End file.
